When I arrived, she was sleeping comfortably in her lift chair, reclined, nestled under a blanket. I sat down in the other chair, took a figurative deep breath, and unplugged for a little while. For almost an hour, we sat together with her sleeping and me reading articles about Tom Petty's death and the aftermath that I had saved on my phone. She occasionally stirred but didn't wake up and I was perfect content to sit with her.
It's interesting - to me, anyway - but something about being there put my mind at ease. I didn't feel conflicted or guilty, because I was where I was meant to be. It was a bit of a zen moment, as I was totally present and within myself, in control of my emotions, just kind of being. Especially lately, those moments are few and far between and, in truth, hard to find. Somehow, though, I tend to find t them in my mom's presence.
After giving it some thought, what I concluded was this - even in her diminished state, when she's quite literally a shell of her former self physically and mentally, my mom has the ability to comfort me and to make me feel safe and at peace. That's true love, I think.
It's special and a bit of a miracle to me and probably to me only, that my mom still has the ability to wrap me in the cocoon of her love.
I suspect I'm going to miss that most of all.
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